


Now Real Life Has No Appeal

by CouldBDangerous



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Other, something weird im working on, sorry - Freeform, this isn't fandom related
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:15:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CouldBDangerous/pseuds/CouldBDangerous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A girl is thrown from reality to reality<br/>but is it a reality at all<br/>'til death does she part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this isn't fandom related and I'm sorry about that. Uhm, but if you'd check it out, leave a comment maybe, I'd like feedback!  
> I've just had so many weird dreams like this, some of them related, some of them not.  
> Hope you enjoy!

You can die in real life, real life has no appeal. But sometimes, I wish I were in real life, in a coma on a hospital bed in a cold room surrounded by fragrant flowers. I wish I were there, my hands laced over my stomach, a batch of flowers beneath my fingers like in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Because my lips would be red and I would be dead and the only difference would be that no one would be there to mourn over me.  
Crap, that sounded really deep and sad, so don’t worry, that’s not really happening to me.  
I’m actually in a desert right now. It’s a hot, stinging, unsympathetic desert. It’s a bastard, too. The sun and the sand are allies; I can feel it in my bare feet. I carry the sun on my back, like a backpack in middle school, and that’s as much of a hellhole as this place.   
Funny thing is in this situation, I don’t entirely know why I’m here or why I’m walking where my shadow takes me, so I might be moving in circles, I don’t know. But my legs are slow, so agonizingly slow and all I can think about is drinking some water. Because what is the ocean without a moon? It’s nothing, it’s boring and dull and frankly I don’t believe that water would be on the Earth if it weren’t for the moon. Okay I need to stop thinking about water.  
Bye Bye Miss American Pie by Don Mclean is streaming through my head right now, and pictures of Chris Pine and cats.  
“Did you write the book of love, and do you have faith in God above?”  
Obviously not, God wishes to see me suffer.  
And oh, how I wish to lay down on the ground, but that will just entertain the sun and sand all the more, because it’ll feel like I’d be getting a stabbing back massage by Satan himself.  
At least Satan would try to be hospitable.  
Sometimes I stop, holding the leather straps of the sun backpack on my shoulder blades and turn around to look at my footprints; the only thing is they aren’t there. The warm, unsatisfying, annoying winds of the desert wisp them away with a brush of bastardness just like the sun and the sand. How the hell am I supposed to get out of here if no one knows I’m here, and they won’t ever know I’m here, because of the winds of bastard? What a jerk.  
I’ll just keep walking, I guess.

The sun can only be an annoying bag of dicks for so long, so he goes to rest, along with the sand, he can’t be hot forever, unlike RDJ if you’re picking up what I’m putting down.  
So I slide off my leather straps and sit in the coldness of the desert, and now it’s really cold. But now I can lie on my back and use my hands as pillows beneath my head.  
The stars look like reflecting diamonds in the sky. But their background is like a deep ocean blue. It wavers through the shield of heat waves, waves like the ocean. (By the way diamonds don’t shine, Rhianna.)  
I see the big dipper, the little one, Scorpio, Artemis. Are they close together in the world? I don’t know. I was never one for books. I point to them and keep my hand in the air for a long time, the blood rushes down to my shoulder, making my hand become numb and cold and my skin finally feels normal rather than stained red.   
“Neverland,” I say aloud, imagining a boy lying beside me. He’s blond too, with eyes like whiskey wearing a blue and green striped shirt with tan shorts. I don’t know who this boy is but he smiles at me and I smile back. I grab for his hand but I waver through him as if he’s made of mist, and that’s ridiculous because he can’t be, we’re in a desert. “Peter Pan lives there, y’know.”  
“That’s cool,” he says.   
“Do you even know who Peter Pan is?”  
“Not really, he’s some ten year old boy or something that can fly, right?”  
I let my cold arm, which feels lighter than a feather slump down onto the sand and give him a look. “Why the hell did I imagine you up?”  
“Because, I’m cute?” He offers. There’s no lying about that.  
I ignore his comment, “Peter Pan can fly, yeah, but from pixie dust.”  
“He some sort of girly boy?”  
I’d slap this guy upside the head if I could touch him.  
“No, he’s—oh, I give up.”  
“Change the song,” the boy says irritably, “You’ve been listening to Miss American Pie all day.”  
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I cross my arms over my chest, which burns a little bit, I wince.  
“Baby,” he sticks out his tongue at me.  
“You try walking in the sun all day,” I counter, “See how you like it.”  
“Maybe I will.”

Well, the song changed, Bon Jovi- Dead or Alive is playing now. It sort of fits what’s happening right now. I’m sitting on a mound of ice, snow, slush, whatever you want to call it. It doesn’t matter because I can’t feel my butt anyway.  
At least I have a coat on, it’s big and brown and puffy. Thick tickling fur rims the hood and it blows harshly into my face from the frosty icy wind.   
“Wanted dead or alive,” Sing it, Bon Jovi.  
What am I? Am I dead, or am I alive? I have absolutely no idea what’s going on right now but hey, I’m acting pretty chill about it, aren’t I? I’m laughing at my terrible pun.  
Could Jack Frost just swoop down here already and give me a little company? I mean the one from that Disney movie, yeah. I wonder if he invented chill.  
The wind stops, and all is still, and I look around at the white, that’s all it is. I bet from afar I look like a poop smudge in the snow and the people will always say: Don’t eat the yellow snow!  
But what about the brown snow, no one’s ever cautioned their kid from that, now have they? So maybe I’ll be picked up by a giant six year old and I’ll be eaten, that’d be pretty cool. Oh man, I’m on a roll.  
“Echo!” I call out. Sure enough, my voice rings back three times, fading out slowly each time it repeats, “Echo, echo, echo.” Is echo even a word? It doesn’t look like a word.  
“Where am I?” I call out. “Where am I, where am I, where am I.”   
“I’m an idiot!”  
“You’re an idiot, you’re an idiot, you’re an idiot.”  
Wow, jerk.  
I see some movement in the distance, giant white blobs. Then one turns, black eyes, black nose. Polar bear. I stand up, maybe I can get mauled to death and die and return to the desert because I really don’t like it here.  
I stumble down the mound, rolling forward, caking my whole body in snow. Crap, I can’t feel my face. I think I might have gotten some frost bite over my sun burn, but I stand up and start waddling over to the bears anyway.  
I wave frantically, my lips try to smile, I open my mouth and in the worst Russian accent I’ve ever done I shout: “Hello, comrades!” Caught their attention, works every time.


	2. 1767

“Hello!” I call out once again, but it seems like they’re running away from me. “Wait—!” Oh, God, still he doesn’t pity me. It’s just like middle school, there go all my friends.  
But I understand why they’re running away; they see something they want, something they crave. But would it kill anyone to have a Subway around here? I’m starving too. I waddle after them as fast as I can, the brown snow pants making an irritating sound of rubber against rubber. It sounds like two balloons making friction, or wobbling plastic, you know what that sounds like.  
I finally reach the edge of the snowy ice platform and slump down onto my side like a heaving walrus. I make a walrus sound. That’s a teenager sound, a regular teenage sound, yes.  
The bears still pay no attention to me, but they look intently at the water, and then something, yes, something leaps from the water. I only see a flash of it, and then a little splash. The main polar bear, the biggest one, the big mama, she claws out for it, but she doesn’t go in that freezing water. Hell no, even if you got that giant coat of fur I wouldn’t even do it.  
“Y’know,” I call out, she doesn’t turn to me. “You could just wait it out.” Her head slowly turns over to me, her eyes the most disapproving look I’ve ever seen from a bear. In fact, it’s the only look I’ve seen from a bear, “Or not, whatever.” And man, after that I must’ve boosted her confidence or something, I don’t know, but the second time that gray thing teases her, that thing is dead, gone.   
She tears it apart, her children eat with her. And I thought polar bears only drink Coca-Cola.  
Night falls, kind of, I can’t tell. I lay there for hours, hearing the smacking noises of seal flesh and whatnot, the satisfactory grumbles and whines from the bears. I sit up, and I watch the cubs play, it’s really cute actually, but then I remind myself of the fact that if I went over and touched them their mother would maul me to my own demise—   
“Yo, big mama,” I say wobbling to position my puffy self onto my feet, “I’m going to touch your babies.” She lifts her bloody snout and looks at me: Are you kidding me?   
“What’re you going to do about it, huh?” I try to talk loud, but my voice is drowned out by Eye of The Tiger, again. The cubs stop playing as I approach them, and then, I stick out a gloved hand and I touch the baby’s back. “Touch.”  
The last thing I remember is a loud roar and then it went black. Glad that planned work, I should have thought of that sooner.

I wake up, that’s it. Wood, wooden ceiling, I sit up. Frilly short sleeves, corset, green dress, oh God I’m a Brit.   
A door opens, I scramble to sit up, and my instinct is to fix my hair, “Do forgive me, Miss.”  
“What.”  
“Miss, are you alright?” A tall gentleman with black hair, long legs, and a defined face stands at the door. He turns and closes it, his two coat tails flailing, showing the red and black trimming on his clothing. “Where are your guardians at? I wish to speak to Mr. Washington.”   
“Like, George Washington?”  
He laughs, it’s genuine, and I like this sound. “No, I mean your father.”  
“I have a—?”  
He cocks an eyebrow with concern, “—actually, I don’t know where he is.”  
“Ah,” he says with a nod, “So, how are you feeling?” I stand up and heave a loud breath at the squeezing of my ribs, “Miss—?”  
“Can I—” I gasp, “Untie this?”  
He walks over to me and grips my shoulders, I feel my sunburn on my frost bite scream and I smack his hand away. “Dude, don’t touch me.”  
“Du—?”  
“I mean, uh, royal dude, don’t touch me it hurts okay,” I back away, “What year is it?”  
“Miss, I believe you should get back to bed, right now.”  
“Just answer the question.”  
“1767, Miss,” he sighs, “Come, I’ll fetch your father after you get to bed.”  
Alright so this guy gets me into bed, he leaves me to privacy to change, and I do. I change into a long white night gown with weird lacing on my sleeves. “Do you know where your father may be?”  
“Nope,” it sounds like I’m constipated when I do, I feel the blood rushing to my head as I try to take off a small heel. “Hey uh, what’s your name again?”  
“Richard,” he answers through the door, “and are you sure you’re okay?”  
“Yeah, yeah,” I let out a sigh of relief when the heel pops off, “Okay uh, wait, where am I?”  
“Boston.”  
“He’s somewhere by the—boats.”  
“There’re a lot of boats here, Miss.”  
“Well figure it out, royal dude; I’m not leaving this house—”  
Richard barges in; he stands there, his hand on the handle, his face flushed. He doesn’t look angry like I intended, the sexual tension is rising, and I can feel it in my left boob. Don’t ask why it’s the left one, it just gets heavier I don’t know.  
“Madam—” Richard steps forward.  
“Crap dude I saw this in a movie once and I am not doing this with you,” I say with an eye roll. Richard hesitates; his previous extended hand slowly lowers to his side. “I don’t like you, you were wrong, nope, sorry, not in this life.”  
“But I—“ he flusters, his expression sad, his forehead now beaded with sweat, he runs a hand over his hair, “You said—”  
“No I didn’t.”  
“Yes you did.”  
“Dude, no I didn’t.”  
“What is this, dude?!” He gets angry, he slams the door. I jump in my seat on the bed where I’m sitting, “I know nothing of the sort.”  
“It’s an—endearing term,” I waver, crap, I’d be happier with that annoying blond boy I summoned up a while ago. “But, what am I?” I look down to my body, “I’m like, 15 and you’re what, 25?”  
“27,” he corrects, his steaming attitude lowering to a mere boiling point, “I thought you knew all of this.”  
Alright so, question is, how do I get myself killed in this life? Maybe I could get murdered by a jealous woman maybe? I hate acting.  
A throw the back of my hand over my forehead, “Richard!” I slump onto my back, “I may faint!”   
“I knew it!” His voice relieved, wow thanks buddy, you’re really sympathetic, “You’re only sick, you haven’t forgotten!” He runs to my side and sits, holds me up with an arm around my shoulders and sets his cheek on top of my head. I feel like a bug beneath a boot, he’s so heavy, crap, this is really uncomfortable. I “faint”. He still sits there; I peek out one eye and stick my tongue out for effect. Walrus noise.  
“Okay, Richard—Richard,” I gag, pushing him away, “Seriously, that was supposed to make you leave.”  
“Leave? Why would I leave a fainting girl by herself?”   
“I need some air,” I say, “There’s—there’s another dude I have to meet.” Richard’s eyebrows furrow in concern and confusion. Ah yes! Got to make a love triangle, perfect, go me, go me. Okay this is no time for dance parties. “Yes, his name is—uh—Peter!” Hopefully he can’t fly with pixie dust to get away from me.  
“Peter?” Richard stands. ‘Bout time he stops touching me, creep, “The boy from the bakery?”  
“Uh—yes!” I sigh as if in love, I gag. “We have been meeting these past nights!” Richard looks so pathetic, I nearly feel bad, but not really. If a man as Richard becomes hurt over one man, I may have to become a bimbo to get him to leave. I stand up and hurry to the door, open it, and run down the hallway to the front door.  
“Miss Eli—!”  
I swear if my name is Elizabeth I’ll shoot my father in the head, that’s the most original name I’ve ever heard. Not that Elizabeth is a bad name, no, not at all, but it doesn’t fit me. It’s like, there’s a snake in a boot.  
Bakery, bakery, have to find a bakery. The air is muggy, men and gentlemen walking arm and arm and the smell of fish is a little…fishy.   
They all look at me as if I’m crazy, considering I’m in my nightgown, walking the streets like an old woman on her work out.   
Tea is being moved left and right, people drinking it, buying it, snorting it. Gee, wonder where that idea came from.  
“Peter!” I sing-song, “Oh, Peter!” I spin in circles to add the crazy effect. Carriages avoid me, horses neigh at me in lecturing tones to get out of the way. My bare feet are wet and muddy and bruised now, the frost bite on the sunburn like prickling shoes.  
A door slams open; the blond boy steps out in confusion, “Elizabeth?” He looks side to side, and then runs out to fetch me. “You,” he says with a slight sarcastic tone.  
My eyes widen, “You,” I repeat. I look behind me; Richard is looking for me, asking people, men pointing my way. “Okay this is no time for explaining, take me inside already.”  
“Why is Eye of The Tiger playing?”   
“Shut up,” I glare walking towards the bakery entry. Peter follows behind, looking back to see Richard running to him.  
“Looks like your boyfriend is a little more than angry.”  
“I’ve come to compare him to a boiling pot of water.”


End file.
